


(we are) fallen

by agent_izhyper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post Nogitsune, disturbing imagery, mindfuckery, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 4am. It’s dark. The trees swish gently above them, the ground is cold, the bark behind their backs rough. Their knees are the only point of contact and Stiles’ eyes are drawn to it. It’s warm, almost shockingly so, and he imagines that warmth seeping through his whole body, worming its way in between his insides and curling around his cold cold fingers and his heart.<br/><b>*</b><br/>After the events of the Nogitsune, Stiles finds himself being grounded into reality by Derek. Or, so he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(we are) fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Note: the middle section (there are three 'parts') doesn't really read completely linear. It is meant to be confusing. Think of them as snippets over a series of sleepless nights, with Stiles struggling to hold onto whatever anchoring comfort or coping mechanism he can find.
> 
> Okay, I guess I should give a bit of warning for some things in case anyone didn't see the tags? There are vague-ish depictions of some of Stiles' nightmares (in the italics mostly) that are somewhat disturbing? Uh, basically, Stiles' downward spiral into the realm of...not... coping well with the after effects of everything the Nogitsune did, and everything he holds himself responsible for.
> 
> (Last part hasn't been read through yet, only because I just finished and it's almost 3am and I am worn out. Feel free to point out mistakes and stuff 'til I edit it.)

 

 **shadows on my wall don’t sleep**   
**(keep calling me, beckoning)  
**

******

Stiles is no stranger to nightmares.

_(heart pounding, racing, feet slapping bare against dirt and sticks and slipping in mud in blood, screamingscreamingscreaming don’t stop keep running don’t look back don’t listen don’t DON’T)_

He’s no stranger to the terrors that creep in the shadows.

_(whispers and taunts and let me in, no nonodon’t, don’t turn don’t look don’t open it, no no NO)_

He’s definitely no stranger to his heart pumping fear and panic until he’s sure it leaks from him like blood from an open wound.

_(make him stop why can’t he just stop, but he said it he said- going to hurt them all one by one by- no no get away from them don’t touch them, don’t hurt them not them not THEM)_

And he’s not a stranger to his hands, pale and shaking and twitching always twitching.

_(one two, quickly, three it’s creeping up coming closer - four - it’s back for him he can’t get rid of it he can’t he’s not strong enough can’t stop it he can’t - five that’s five he can’t stop it can’t hold it off- six. six six six not real not real not- WAKE UP)_

 

He’s grown familiar to these things, so so familiar. Stiles is no stranger to any of it.

 

There was a time when he was.

But not anymore.

  ******

The only thing he can’t quite get the grasp of is a coping mechanism.

He’s not fine. He knows it, he does. There’s no point denying it, not to himself.

That’s not to say he doesn’t build his walls. Carefully constructed, precise and thick, he raises barrier after barrier until no one can see him from behind their shadows. Deflections roll off his tongue as easily as they always do; _I’m fine_ has never held meaning anyway, and what is he supposed to do when his dad looks more and more cautiously hopeful every time Stiles doesn’t visibly crack under the pressure, if not this?

He shouldn’t; he knows that too. But Stiles has never been good at doing what he should or should not do when it comes to family. Only what he thinks is necessary.

******

**if you could only save me  
** **i’m drowning in the waters of my soul**

**  
****

Derek’s the one to find him one night.

He’s not surprised. Should he be? He’s not sure; just knows that surprise is not within his range of emotions these days.

* * *

...sometimes, he wakes _falling_ , scrambling blindly wildly for purchase against the basement floor locker door, lost in eternal darkness and the sounds his voice coming closercloser there’s no escape not here- 

* * *

_(he kills Scott with a twist of his fingers and a slice through blood tendonsmuscleskin until they’re both bleached red, a twisted facsimile of a paint fight gone wrong, gurgling breath bubbling out of crimson lips replacing laughs_

_he kills Scott and watches him fall and flexes a hand_

_feels nothing but the rush of power boiling through his veins)_  

* * *

“You’ve been coming out here every night.”

It’s not a question. Stiles thinks maybe it should have been but there’s no questioning inflection in Derek’s voice; it’s as steady as his gaze is. Like he knows.

Of course he does.

Stiles shrugs. “Almost.”

 _Almost_ meaning every night since getting his own body back except for the two where he’d just passed out in his room from sheer exhaustion.

But he doesn’t need to add that.

Doesn’t need to add that his room isn’t _right_. That being in there makes his skin itch and crawl and it’s unbearable at night, in the dark, and he hasn’t been terrified - actually, frozen-in-place, scream swelling up in his chest but jaw locked down against it, _terrified_ \- of things in the shadows since-

Since a time his mom was still there to soothe him. And fuck if that doesn’t make him feel hopeless.

But he doesn’t need to say any of that.

Derek just watches him for a few more seconds; sighs and lowers himself to the ground beside Stiles so they’re sitting, mirrored, side-by-side.

Losing the constant focus on his face, the eye contact that speaks louder than anything he could possibly say right now, makes some of the tension in his shoulders seep out. He carefully nudges his knee against Derek’s, somewhat gratified when he doesn’t move his away.

So they sit like that.

It’s 4am. It’s dark. The trees swish gently above them, the ground is cold, the bark behind their backs rough. Their knees are the only point of contact and Stiles’ eyes are drawn to it. It’s warm, almost shockingly so, and he imagines that warmth seeping through his whole body, worming its way in between his insides and curling around his cold cold fingers and his heart.

Their elbows are a couple of inches apart. Heat radiates from Derek and if Stiles weren’t bone-deep weary he would shy away. He doesn’t, can’t get warm, relishes the ice that numbs his fingers. Warmth has no place near him.

But.

_(always a but)_

It’s Derek.

And Stiles has never been particularly good at doing what he should or should not do around Derek.

* * *

 ...sometimes, he wakes screaming, screaming _no_ and _don’t do it_ and _stop_ and _scott allison lydia derek_ until he’s hoarse and trembling, eyes wide open staring at their broken bodies he did this-

* * *

 ( _he rips Lydia apart with a snap and a grin stretching across his face, her screams taper off into sobs and then silence except for the echo that never ends, rings in his ears_

_he rips Lydia apart and holds her, tender yet not, and lets the scream echo and echo and_

_something inside him sings along with it)_

* * *

When he speaks it’s almost unbidden; words jerked from his mouth without his permission.

**

“Have you talked to Scott about… any of it?”

The laugh that wrenches itself out is not pleasant at all.

“Scott?” Stiles tips his head back against the sturdy tree trunk, eyes seeking out the shadowy canopy far far above their heads. “You kidding me? I’m the last person he’ll want to see right now.”

He can see Derek frowning out the corner of his eye. “He said that?”

Stiles scoffs, can’t stop himself from shooting him a sardonic look. “Does he need to? Considering what I- what- _I_ don’t wanna be around me these days. Come on.” His voice is flat, carrying his words up to tangle in the still tree branches and get lost in them. Another confession to join the ones already up there.

He’d wonder what it is that makes them happen, whether it’s the quiet company or the setting, but he doesn’t really care.

Derek’s shoulder knocks against his lightly. Stiles lets out a steady breath and allows himself to relax against the contact slowly.

“You’re wrong,” Derek tells him after a still eternity passes.

Stiles rolls his eyes, lets them slide shut so he can’t see Derek’s words persistent before him.

It doesn’t stop him from continuing.

“He still needs you.”

It doesn’t stop his words from pressing against his ears, worming their way into his head.

Another careful breath. “I know,” he murmurs.

It hurts.

******

“I’m not scared of something else getting at me.”

He curls a hand into a tight fist, shoves his knuckles into the ground he sits on, digs into small rocks and sticks.

“And I’m not scared of the dark.”

“I know.”

* * *

_(he stands before bodies_

_corpses bloodied mangled_

_dripdripdrip of crimson from fingers he waves in a mocking goodbye_

_he stands and breathes in red copper and destruction and he did it he did this and_

_it tastes like power at the back of his tongue)_

* * *

 ...sometimes, he wakes not just gasping for breath, but choking, gagging, fingers scrabbling at material that isn’t _there_ only it _is_ and he falls to all fours and retches until it hurts-

* * *

He twists his fingers around the stem of a dandelion, twists and pulls until it rips free from the earth to sit in his hand. Raising it so it’s at eye-level, he stares, scrutinizing.

“Do you ever... wonder,” he says; his voice is scratchy from disuse but Derek doesn’t so much as twitch beyond an acknowledging tilt of his head, “what it would be like if you just-” he cradles the dandelion in cupped fingers, contemplates it, “-gave up on control?”

His hand curls into a fist and it spits out tufts of white as the small flower crushes beneath his fingers. They fall on his clothes and settle like dust as he watches, dispassionate.

Beside him, Derek reaches over and plucks the squished remains of the flower from his lax hand, spins it between his fingers for a second before letting it drop to the ground. “If I gave up on control,” he replies slowly, “I’d be nothing better than a rogue omega, cutting down anything that was in my way.”

Stiles snorts and turns his head to meet his eyes. “Doesn’t answer my question.”

Derek lips twist, wry. “I… had my moments. Before.”

A slow blink reflects the confusion that settles in at the look softening those light eyes. Stiles almost startles - confusion’s become one of those foreign feelings - but not just at that. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this particular expression on Derek’s face before, one that eases up his edges and the carefully controlled tension Stiles is used to seeing around his mouth, his eyes, but which is almost nonexistent now.

He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed it before now.

_(of course he knows why)_

“Before?” he prompts.

And that’s how he learns about Derek’s mother’s claws.

******

The night is quiet and sheltered. Nothing exists within this bubble of his, of theirs. Words are whispered, unprompted, breathed into the air to curl around their space until one of them either acknowledges or ignores them.

“I think…”

No. He waves them away. Start over.

“What I’m… What freaks me out- _the most_.”

He measures a breath, two, three; the words tremble in the air uncertainly, ready to be shut out, tossed away.

They aren’t. Derek reaches out for them, a quiet inhale and a look, so piercing and warm and _knowing_ it hurts, from under half-shut lids; a gentle purse of his lips and a hesitant hand landing next to Stiles’ buried in the dirt.

“You don’t have to…” _tell me, say it out loud, make it real._

Stiles swallows, watches Derek’s throat bob when he does the same.

“I’m scared of what I would do if I slip up, just once.”

_Scared of what I’m capable of._

_Scared of the voice that never left, the one that craves the chaos and destruction._

_Scared of this burning curiosity about what truly letting go would do._

_Scared of myself._

Sometimes, he thinks born wolves must have some telepathy powers. Or maybe it’s a Derek thing. Or, just a DerekandStiles thing.

Whatever it is, Derek’s jaw tics on a hard bite down on nothing, his gaze burns into Stiles’, and their fingers brush.

Stiles shivers.

Wants to pull away.

_(doesn’t, never does)_

******

“You’re different,” Stiles remarks on a warm morning when the quiet bright chirping of birds above their heads gets too much.

The canopy of trees is highlighted by soft orange and yellow which breaks through the uneven patches to hit them while they walk slowly down a not-path. He watches how the gentle light of dawn illuminates the striking greens and golds of Derek’s eyes, throws shadows across his cheeks when it hits his eyelashes, lights up the sharp edge of his jawline.

 _Dazzling_ is a word that comes to mind.

But that’s not what he’d meant. Derek’s always been the tangible embodiment of ridiculously good-looking. No, this is something under the surface; something missing, to be precise.

Derek glances at him, eyebrows twitching upwards. Stiles watches about ten emotions flit through his eyes, places surprise and something warm, before they settle on a quiet contemplation.

“Isn’t everyone?”

Stiles snorts softly, looking away finally to kick at a rock in his path. He watches it tumble off, disappearing into the bushes. “Not what I meant.” He waves a hand vaguely in Derek’s direction. “You’re less tense, man.”

“Tense.”

“You know what I mean.”

Derek hums noncommittally.

Stiles sneaks another look at him when he tips his head up to peer through the branches at- whatever, birds, squirrels, maybe he’s just sniffing the fresh air, Stiles doesn’t know. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see the lack of tension around his mouth - he’s so used to seeing it set in a hard line that the sight of bunny teeth when he opens his mouth to pull in a breath startles Stiles slightly - and the ease with which he carries himself now, shoulders loose, gait steady but not overly-powerful. It’s-

It’s something.

_(and Stiles can’t get rid of this jittery need to check over his shoulder every two seconds, can’t keep his hands still, can’t get rid of the shadows bruising his eyes)_

He breaks his stare away when Derek tilts his head and catches his eye, silently inquisitive.

Stiles huffs.

Their elbows nudge.

******

The nights are getting colder - or maybe Stiles is. He may be shivering, he's not sure. Fine tremors seem to rattle him all the time these days.

They're laying down this time. Heads cushioned on crossed arms, knees up and legs splayed - the fine space between them burns hot. Stiles doesn't venture to cross it.

The trees are just about covering their clearing but the sky peeks out from the gaps between the branches. Inky black and littered with a smattering of stars. The moon isn't visible, but it's there. Stiles wonders about waves gravitating towards the moon and creatures of the night and how running with them is like slowly slowly having his head pushed under the water's surface as it rises up to meet the moon; no amount of thrashing or held-breaths can save him.

He must say something aloud because Derek hums lightly beside him; when he speaks, his words waft over them, filling in the spaces left behind by the trees.

"It's not even like being hit by a tsunami," he muses. "This is just... small waves steadily growing."

"Until they're chest height and pushing you over," Stiles adds softly. One hand slips out from under his head to rub at his chest absently. "Then they're over your head and you can't fight your way back up."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek quirk an ironic smile and glance at him. Is tempted to look over and see how his eyes look illuminated by the tiny specks of light from above.

"No," Derek agrees, something warm in his tone that makes Stiles tense up and breathe deep, try to pull that inexplicable warmth into him without contact.

_(avoid it, ignore it, don't deserve this)_

"But there's always someone to dive in after you and pull you back up."

Stiles lets go a long, slow breath. He lets his head tip over to the right, seeking Derek's burning stare. They're very close. He lets himself linger on the kaleidoscope of a small galaxy in those eyes, catches them tracking over his own face 

_(they've been here before, so so many times)_

before slipping his eyes shut again; lets himself lean over on an elbow and

_(can't have this don't deserve it)_

their lips never connect. Only air meets him. 

Nothing but a void.

******

**there’s nothing left to say  
** **i’m giving up (giving up now)**

  ******

_“Let me in Ssstilesss…”_

_“N-no, no nono-”_

_“Let. Me. In.” Coming closer, can hear him coming closer, oh god get out, where’s the door, where’s the light,_

_“Going to kill them all Stilesss.”_

_A litany of no’s and harsh gasps, chest burning, need more air, need to get out, he’scomingnow_

_sounds like he’s dragging something along_

_dragging something big and heavy and breathing and_

_“Stiles, son, please…”_

_Stopstopstop no not him anyone but him this isn’t, he’s not, he’s got him, it’s-_

_“Going to let me in Stilesss?” Crooning, sharp, he’s right there._

_“Let him go, let him GO!” Screaming is futile. “DAD!” He still tries._

_Dad yells, agony, something cracks- the air reeks heavy of blood_

_“Stop it just let him go don’t hurt him don’t-”_

_“All you have to do…” Another crack, another scream, a broken “son, please” and_

_and_

_“Let him go TAKE ME AND LET HIM GO!”_

_“Now wasss that so hard Stilesss…”_

_Piercing black is all he knows._

 

He has unfinished business; he knows where to start.

_(one by one)_

He breezes through the trees. Welcomes the darkness as it curls around him, a majestic cloak holding together all the chaos he wishes to unleash. His steps are silent. The shadows whisper to him. There is no other sound.

Until-

“Stiles?”

He pauses, slowly turns around, tilts his head up just slightly to pierce narrowed eyes at Derek. A smirk touches his lips.

"You want Stiles?" Stalk forward slowly, precisely, never breaking the stare. "Or... do you  _want_  Stiles?" He raises his eyebrows, smirks wider, mocking always mocking.

Derek stares at him. Frozen. Eyes wide, lips parted.

It doesn't stop him from striding forward, gaining speed; backing him up against a tree. One hand lands on the scratchy bark, holding his weight up as he leans on it, all wide stance threatening powerful. Cold, cold eyes track over Derek's stoic face. "Oh, if only you  _knew_ , Derek. See... I'd like to take my time with you, but you're just number one on my list. Too bad, hmm?"

No reply; it's okay, he doesn't need one. Pushes off the tree, crowds him in, pulls a fist back to hit and hit, pushes off hands on his shoulders, shoves and _hits_ -

* * *

_(do it)_

_(NO)_

 

* * *

A burst of _pain_.

Dropping falling strings cut-

A blanket of darkness pulls over him.

 

He awakes to pain and cold and scarlet knuckles and-

Gasps, jerks upright, stares around wildly-

 _Alone_.

 

His phone is always in his pocket, always charged, better safe than sorry was a lesson learned the difficult way.

It's icy in his hand, against his ear, and he presses it harder as it rings and rings and  _rings_  come on "c'mon pick up pick up  _dammit_."

The ringing stops. So does his frantic pacing. The shivering, contrarily, intensifies.

"... _Stiles_?" _  
_

A breath punches out of him. "Derek! Derek, shit, you're okay? You're- I didn't get you, it wasn't, I couldn't hold him back this time okay and he wants to come after you- after you _all_ , you, but you got away-"

He's babbling. Shaking. Harshly pulling in breath after breath until he realises Derek's  _saying_ something.

" _What? Stiles, what's- no, don't worry. I'm okay, just- where are you? Don't move, I'll come get you, just tell me where you are_."

His hands hurt; he digs his free one into a tree, flinches back on an invisible hit - it's the one they always sit on. "The- the preserve. You know. Where we... Same place."

Why, why does he have to say this, why is Derek  _asking_ , why isn't he-

" _Okay. Stiles, listen to me. Don't go anywhere. Just stay there._ "

He manages a laugh; it shakes on its way out and flips into a choked-off sob. "Not moving," he mumbles. Lets his legs give way and slides down, curls into himself and tries to ignore the way the night attempts to tug him into an embrace, all darkness and soft whispers and secrets laid out, painstakingly, one by one.

 

The wind howls past him for the sixth time when footsteps approach, stepping deliberately heavy, and something big and amazingly warm drops to the ground in front of him. A soft voice calls his name and it's a jolt of electricity that forces him upright.

"Whoa, hey- Stiles."

"Derek," he breathes out, wide-eyed, pale, shaking.

He can't help but startle when Derek reaches out, hesitant, to lightly grab his arm. More electric shocks seep through him. They jump across his skin as the hand moves down to his wrist; he's vaguely stunned there aren't literal white sparks flitting over forearm.

"You're hurt," Derek says, pulling away the sharp bursts of pain Stiles' hand had been shooting at him.

Stiles stares at their hands, one stark-white splattered in red and the other lined with black. "You were. I was hurting you," he replies, numb. 

Derek glances up at him; a frown creases his eyebrows, concern and worry warring with each other behind his gaze. "I'm fine."

"No." Stiles blinks at him, shakes his head. Pulling his hand away hurts; he relishes it, lets it clear his mind as he points at the tree. The one he knows he-  _remembers_ backing Derek up against, striking again and again. It's painted with flecks of red. "You got away. I don't... remember that." His mouth twists against the bitter taste of that power surge.

Derek's eyes flit between him and the tree. Stiles doesn't like the increasing worry in them. 

"Stiles..."

"What?" His voice is sharp, cuts through the air between them.

Derek's jaw works for a moment, silent. "Whatever you think just happened- it's not real. I'm okay. I didn't get away, because I wasn't here."

He speaks slowly, reeling the words out gently but ready to pull them back if one snags. On  _what_ , Stiles doesn't know, but  _his_ mind has definitely snagged on them.

"No, you. You were." A hard swallow against the anxious feeling swelling up in his chest, trying to block his throat. "You  _were_ , we were here like always, alright, and- look. Sorry if I freaked you out or- whatever. Okay. I get it; he's not back. That was just me, spiralling even further downwards. What else is new."

There's a heat in his words that makes them flare up around him, blazing and bright and so so tense.

Derek holds still like he can feel the flames licking at him and wants to avoid getting burned. "What do you mean... like always?"

Stiles stares;  _gapes_. "What are you, what,  _don't fuck with me_ , Derek!"

"I'm not. Stiles. I wouldn't."

And, fuck, he has to believe him. It's  _Derek_.

But.  _How_.

"No." Deny deny deny. Another swallow, this one dry against a jagged breath cutting at his throat. "No, no- the other night.  _All_ the other nights. We were here.  _You_ found me here, Derek."

"Stiles-"

"No!" He rears up onto his knees, breaths harshly into the other's space, hands coming up to clutch painfully tight at Derek's shoulders, bunching in his shirt. "You were  _here_. We- You told me things! You told me about, about your Mom, about her claws!"

"Yeah, I-" Derek's eyes watch him, careful so careful, as he lifts his hands slowly to circle Stiles' wrists, light but there. "I was telling Scott about that. Last week. You were there."

But-

No, no he wasn't. He  _was_  but, oh, it's not like he actually focuses on what's going on around him these days. More like going through the motions and automatically taking things in without really _processing_  and, and what? What does this even all...

"But... there were other things." He throws his mind back, to seemingly eternal nights and slow conversation, hushed and private. There weren't. Not really. 

_(the kiss that never was)_

Derek's watching him carefully and- oh,  _oh_ , it's not like Stiles has grown used to seeing; it lacks the softness that lights up his eyes, the always barely-there smile that means he's let up his barriers, it lacks the intensity that made Stiles wish he could let himself sink into the warmth and comfort it promised.

He's not the same, and-

It hurts.

"It wasn't real."

He's not entirely sure who whispers it, but they're both holding onto each other, and the night is cold and the space between them crackling with electricity, but nothing about it is right

and Derek was never here.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of symbolism in this fic, most of which I don't want to try dissecting because it's been written over three nights at 2am and my brain hurts. I just want to add: Derek had Stiles as his anchor, when Kate had him and he needed somewhere safe to retreat to, even if just for a short while. Here, Stiles' subconscious digs Derek up as Stiles' own kind of anchor. Whenever the nights get too bad, he goes to the preserve. It's where they met, it's where everything started. Derek always finds him there. And he grounds him. Keeps him from lingering in his own thoughts and memories too long.  
> ...I could go on, to be honest, but I feel like I should stop typing for the night before this all devolves into a sob-fest and hella otp feels.
> 
> (that was fun btw)  
> (critique is always welcome)  
> (please dont kill me for fucking with you. you can find me on [tumblr](http://deathby-stiles.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell or vent about sterek feels, i will welcome you with open arms)
> 
> ALSO. Major kudos to [aelya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xxDodo) for that epic brainstorming session in which she gave me hella painful feels and became responsible for at least half the mindfuckery that goes on here. *casually directs you all to her*


End file.
